


Stanley McGucket Bonus Stories

by The Last Speecher (HeidiMelone)



Series: Stanley McGucket [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Stanley McGucket AU, Trans Fiddleford H. McGucket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8936902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiMelone/pseuds/The%20Last%20Speecher
Summary: Non-canon and semi-canon short stories that take place within the Stanley McGucket AU.  Cross-listed from Tumblr.





	1. That's the Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford comes out to his younger siblings.

Fiddleford took another dress out of his closet and threw it on the growing pile on the floor. It landed with a satisfying _thump_. There was a timid knock on his door.

“Come in.” The door opened.

“Vee, Ma’s doin’ somethin’ weird with yer pictures.” Fiddleford turned. His two younger siblings, Lute and Banjolina (or “Banjey”, as they called her) were standing in the doorway. Banjey gasped. Lute’s eyes widened.

“Viola, what happened to yer pretty hair?” Banjey asked. Fiddleford rubbed the back of his neck, which was no longer covered by a thick mane.

“Chopped it off,” he replied. 

“But it makes ya look like a boy,” Lute said. Pride swelled in Fiddleford’s chest.

“That’s the point.” Lute and Banjey exchanged a confused look. Fiddleford turned back to his closet and took out the last dress, then threw it on the clothes pile. He picked up the mound of girly clothes and walked over to his younger siblings. “Hold out yer hands,” he instructed his younger sister, who did as she was told. Fiddleford deposited the blouses, skirts, dresses, and tights in her outstretched arms. Banjey stared at the pile of clothes she was now holding.

“Vee, why are ya givin’ me these?” she asked.

“Ya might grow into ‘em. Eventually.” At twelve, Banjey was no taller than she’d been in third grade. She was proving to be a late bloomer, like Harper and Basstian.

“What’ll ya wear?” she asked. 

“Harper said I could raid his closet.”

“But- but those are boys’ clothes,” Banjey said, her young face creased in confusion.

“Yep. That’s the point,” Fiddleford said cheerfully. Lute squinted at him.  
“Are ya a lesbian?” he asked. 

_Oh, Lord._

“What’s a lesbian?” Banjey asked Lute.

“They’re these women that cut their hair short and wear men’s clothes. They’re from an island in Greece,” Lute replied. 

_‘Course he has no clue what a lesbian is. It’s a miracle he even knew the word._

“No, Lute, I’m not a lesbian,” Fiddleford said.

“Yeah, we ain’t Greek, we’re Irish,” Banjey chimed in.

“That’s not what- never mind,” Fiddleford said. 

“Is all this to join the army?” Banjey asked. “Are ya goin’ to be like Joan of Arc?”

“No, I don’t like the military, junebug. Ya know that.”

“Yeah, yer a hippy,” Lute put in. “A hippy _lesbian_.”

“No.”

“Then what’s goin’ on?” Lute asked.

_What’s the best way to explain it?_

“I ain’t yer sister.”

“What?!” Banjey squeaked, nearly dropping the pile of clothes. Fiddleford realized his mistake.

“No, I’m still yer sibling, I’m just not yer sister,” he said quickly. Lute and Banjey looked more confused. 

“Viola, whattaya mean?” Lute asked. Fiddleford’s skin crawled at the sound of his birth name.

“Don’t call me that,” he said.

“Don’t call ya what?”

“Viola. Or Vee, or Phoebe, or any of those other names.”

“Then what do we call ya?” Banjey asked.

“Fiddleford. Or Fidds, fer short.”

“But that’s a boy’s name,” Banjey said. 

“That’s the point.” Lute looked at him suspiciously.

“Are ya _sure_ ya ain’t a lesbian?”

“I’m sure. Look, ya know how I said I weren’t yer sister?” Lute and Banjey nodded. “That’s ‘cause I’m yer brother.”

“Really?” Banjey asked.

“Really.”

“Ya know this fer a fact?”

“I’ve never known anything more,” Fiddleford said decisively. Banjey and Lute exchanged a look.

“Okay,” Banjey said. “If yer sure.”

“I am.”

“So we should call ya ‘he’ and not ‘she’ then, right?” Lute asked. Fiddleford nodded. “Got it.”

_Wow, that went really well! And Ma and Pa said they wouldn’t understand or accept it._ He remembered what his ma had told him the night before.

_“They’re awful young, so don’t say too much. You’ll confuse ‘em. Banjey ‘specially might take it hard. She’s losin’ her older sister, and she ain’t as close to Violynn as she is to ya. Yer lil sister looks up to you, ya know.”_ Fiddleford did feel a bit guilty; he wanted his younger sister to have good role models.

_But since realizin’ who I am and decidin’ to go fer it, I’ve felt better than I ever have. In my entire life. And anyways, Banjey, and Lute, too, deserve a role model who is true to themselves._

“Why?” Banjey asked, distracting Fiddleford from his thoughts.

“What?”

“Why are ya our brother now? Why is all this happenin’?” she clarified. Fiddleford opened his mouth to reply.

“There ya are!” Ma McGucket said, walking into the room. She put her hands on her hips. “Banjey, go put those clothes away, and clean up yer room while yer at it.”

“But I was askin’ Vee, I mean Fidds, a question,” Banjey protested.

“No buts! And Lute, go take care of the chickens.”

“Ma!”

“Now,” Ma said firmly. Lute and Banjey left. As they walked away, Fiddleford could hear his little sister muttering something.

“I have five older siblings: one sister and four brothers. My brothers’ names are Harper, Basstian, Lute, and Fiddleford.” She continued to repeat herself as she headed toward her room. Fiddleford couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

“Hon,” Ma said, grabbing his attention. “‘Member what yer pa and I told ya? Don’t say too much.”

“I was goin’ to answer a question.”

“They ain’t old enough.”

“If they’re old enough to ask the question, aren’t they old enough to know the answer?”

“That younger sister of yours started askin’ where babies come from when she was three. Should I have told her?”

“No…” Ma put a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder.

“When ya have kids of yer own, you’ll understand. Ya have to protect yer sons and daughters.”

“Protect them? From what? Me?” Fiddleford asked, hurt by his ma’s phrasing.

“I didn’t mean it like that, munchkin. I need to protect them from the world and its confusin’ things. They don’t need to know what a trans-gender is. Not yet. We’re all goin’ to have some issues adjustin’ to this. Just be patient, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Anyways, yer siblings have all accepted ya as their brother, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Ain’t that enough?” She kissed him on the forehead and left. Fiddleford sat down on his bed. He looked at his door. The sign reading “Viola” was still proudly displayed on it.

_I can practically hear it tauntin’ me._

“I don’t know if it is enough,” he said quietly, to his empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written a lot of different short stories, drabbles, and ficlets that take place in the Stanley McGucket AU. A friend suggested I crosslist them on here, so enjoy. Merry Christmas.


	2. Werewolves of Gumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gravity Falls may have the highest concentration of weirdness, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t weird things elsewhere.

“Werewolves? In Gumption?” Angie said with a laugh. She stood up. “Y’all need to stop listenin’ to Larry.”

“Larry?” Ford asked.

“The old man what lives in the town dump,” Fiddleford supplied. “And no, we didn’t hear it from him. We _saw_ it.” Angie raised an eyebrow. “When we were drivin’ back into Gumption last night from Backupsmore, this huge dog-lookin’ thing ran out in front of the truck. It got away, but its eyes were glowin’, and had an almost human intelligence behind ‘em.” Angie shook her head.

“Yer just tired,” she said, walking into the kitchen. She began to hum as she made herself dinner. 

“Wait, I think I saw that dog thing, too,” Stan said. “In the barn about a month ago. It didn’t run away first, it let me get pretty close. But then one of the horses noticed it and got spooked, so the dog ran off. Thought it was just a coyote.” Ford tried not to be amused by Stan’s new pronunciation of the word “coyote”.

_Of course he uses the southern one now._

“It was a werewolf,” Ford said. “And I know just how to take care of it.” He dug something out of his pocket. “This should help us control the werewolf when we next see it,” he said, holding up a small metal cylinder. Fiddleford frowned.

“What is it?”

“It’s a device that produces a soundwave too high-pitched for humans to hear, but which dogs and wolves can hear. It causes them some distress.”

“It’s a damn dog whistle,” Stan said. “Ya picked it up at the dollar store. Stop actin’ like it’s some big invention.” Ford glared at his twin.

“Do ya really think a dog whistle will control a wild animal?” Fiddleford asked, concerned.

“Of course! The noise it makes hurts their sensitive ears. All we need to do is blow on it, like so.” He blew the dog whistle. There was a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a number of colorful southern words.

“You all right?” Fiddleford called, over Angie continuing to swear up a storm.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just- what was that noise?” Angie replied. Ford got a contemplative expression. He walked into the kitchen, closely followed by Fiddleford and Stan. Angie was kneeling on the floor, trying to clean up the remains of her bowl of soup. 

“This noise?” Ford asked. Angie looked up at him, confused. He blew the whistle again. Angie dropped the rag she was holding to cover her ears and stood up, eyes blazing. 

“Yes, that noise! If ya blow on that one more time, my ears’ll bleed!” 

“Really?” Angie nodded vigorously. She was now leaning against the counter, staring at the whistle with unbridled rage. “Because this is a dog whistle.”

“That ain’t a dog whistle. If it were, I wouldn’t be able to hear it.” She looked at Stan. “Can you hear it?” Stan shook his head.

“A human wouldn’t be able to hear it,” Ford said. “But a werewolf should.” Angie squinted at him.

“What exactly are ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Ford blew the whistle again instead of replying. Angie gripped the edge of the counter. It cracked. 

“Holy shit,” Stan whispered. 

“Cut it out!” Angie barked. Her voice was more animalistic, deeper, rougher.

“Why?” Ford stood directly in front of her. He stared at her and blew the whistle, right in her face. Angie snapped. She launched herself at him, pinning him to the ground. She grabbed the whistle from his hand and clenched it in her fist, shattering it.

“I told ya to cut it out!” she snarled. She put her face right above his, growling. Her well-manicured fingernails dug into Ford’s arms. 

“Angie!” Someone grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her away. Stan pinned her arms behind her back. Ford was horrified to see that the tips of her fingernails were red. She had drawn blood. Angie writhed in Stan’s grasp, snarling and biting at the air. “What the fuck is wrong with ya?” Stan demanded, attempting to keep her under control. Angie growled in response. She glared at Ford, and he could see her eyes glinting, glimmering, almost glowing. The same way the werewolf’s eyes had. 

“Stan, could ya be a bit more gentle?” Fiddleford asked. He had plastered himself against the wall when Angie freaked out, but was looking at his younger sister with concern.

“Hell no. I’ve barely got her as it is. She’s strong. Scary strong.” Fiddleford approached his sister cautiously.

“Angie?” She snapped her jaws together with an audible _click_ , less than an inch away from Fiddleford’s nose. Fiddleford recoiled. He then spun around to glare at Ford. “What did ya do to my sister?!”

“I exposed her as the werewolf,” Ford replied, getting up, wincing as he did so. He looked at his arms. On both arms, he had five marks, curving in a half-circle formation. Each one was bleeding, some more than others.

“Ya drove her crazy!” Fiddleford said, furious. “Look at her!” Angie was still struggling to get out of Stan’s grasp, but gradually getting weaker as she got more tired. She stopped momentarily, panting visibly. Ford met her eyes and her attempts began again with renewed energy. 

“Sixer, you know better than to look a mean dog in the eyes,” Stan said in a strained voice. 

“My sister is not a dog!”

“No, she’s a fuckin’ wolf, and she’s out of control!” Stan snapped. “It’s a good thing Ford tested that whistle out now. Can ya imagine if she had claws and fangs? As it is, she hurt Ford an’ broke the countertop.” He pulled Angie closer to his body. “Chill,” he hissed to her. Angie growled again, but more softly. 

Fiddleford attempted to approach her once more. She watched him warily. He put a gentle hand on Angie’s shoulder. She closed her eyes. After a moment, she slumped, completely unconscious. Stan released her, only to grab her a split second later before she could hit the ground. Ford swallowed nervously, staring at the blood already congealing on her fingernails. His stomach churned.

“Why did she do that?” Fiddleford asked.

“Well, first off, Ford baited her,” Stan said. “Second, she’s a fuckin’ werewolf.”

“It’s the middle of the day!” Fiddleford protested. Stan shrugged. Angie sighed softly, her eyes still closed. She shifted in Stan’s arms. “She’s asleep. Guess nearly rippin’ out Ford’s throat _would_ be tirin’.”

“What do ya want me to do?” Stan asked. 

“Take her to her room. Put her on her bed, and lock the door from this side,” Ford instructed.

“What, ya want to quarantine her?” Fiddleford asked.

“For the time being, yes!” Ford said firmly. “She attacked me!”

“She wouldn’t have if ya hadn’t messed with her,” Stan replied. 

“She still needs to be put somewhere else, where if she wakes up still… feral, she won’t hurt anyone,” Ford said.

“Might shred the hell outta the blankets and pillows though,” Stan muttered.

“Better the comforter than someone’s arm.” 

Stan carried Angie upstairs. She muttered something in her sleep about steak. Lute emerged from his room on the second floor of the McGucket farmhouse.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked. Stan blinked.

“I didn’t know you were home.”

“Yeah, I was nappin’. Been pretty tired lately.” He caught sight of Angie, fast asleep in Stan’s arms. “Oh no, did she fall asleep somewhere she wasn’t s’pposed to again?”

“…Sure.” Lute suddenly winced and covered his ears. “What?”

“It’s that awful noise again! Where is it comin’ from?”

“What noise?”

“Stanford!” Fiddleford said to his boyfriend, his voice carrying up the stairs easily. “Quit blowin’ that darn thing! Ya might wake up Angie!” Stan looked over at Lute, dread building in his chest. Lute idly scratched behind his ear in a very dog-like manner. 

“Shit.”

“What?” Lute asked. He winced again. “Seriously! What _is_ that?” 

“Stanford, I’m takin’ this whistle away from ya!” Fiddleford shouted. Stan shrugged helplessly at Lute.

“Can’t help ya.” He carried Angie into her room and deposited her somewhat roughly on her bed. Stan glanced back into the hallway, where Lute was still standing around, looking confused and angry. “Great. _Both_ of ‘em are werewolves. God, I hope it’s not all the McGuckets. They practically make up half the town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a non-canon story. There will be a few non-canon stories in this collection of ficlets, including one about Ma McGucket saving the world.  
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	3. Surf and Sand and Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lute and Angie McGuckets grew up in Arkansas and Stan grew up in New Jersey, but in 1972, they all saw the Pacific Ocean.

“Holy buckets, look at the palm trees!” Angie shouted, her face pressed against the window and her voice somewhat muffled as a result.

“We’ve been drivin’ past ‘em fer how long now?” Lute said idly from the passenger seat.

“It’s still amazin’!” Angie squealed. 

“Roll down yer window, it’s gorgeous out,” Stan told Angie. She obliged, immediately sticking her head out the window. Stan looked at her in the mirror. Her mouth was wide open as she stared, wide-eyed, at the California landscape. 

“Yer actin’ like Joel,” Lute said. Angie pouted.

“I ain’t a dog!” 

“Then quit actin’ like one! Ow!”

“Don’t kick Lute’s seat,” Stan said tiredly. Angie rolled her eyes. Stan was finding it hard to stay as energetic as the youngest two McGuckets. He’d agreed to drive Angie out to San Diego so that she could move in to school, but he’d had no clue they would be so boisterous the entire time. He sighed softly. 

_Cut ‘em some slack. They’ve never been east of Oklahoma before._

“Wow,” Angie said quietly.

“What is it now?” Lute asked her.

“The palm trees.”

“Goodness gracious, Banjolina, let it go, would ya?” Lute said. “It’s not like it’s the ocean or anything.” Angie said something back to him, but Stan tuned the arguing out. He furrowed his brow, suddenly catching a hint of something he recognized; a salty breeze. His heart ached as memories of the Jersey Shore came flooding back to him. They turned a corner, and Stan’s heart began to race. 

“God, it’s been too long since I’ve seen the ocean,” he said casually, admiring the expanse of glimmering water. There was commotion from Angie and Lute as they stopped bickering to gape at the ocean.

“Sweet sarsaparilla,” Lute breathed. Angie unbuckled and got up from her seat in the back, to get a closer look.

“Wow,” she whispered. Stan glanced at her. Tears were in her eyes. “Where- where does it end?”

“It doesn’t,” Stan replied. Angie gasped softly. 

“It’s- it’s so big. I- I don’t understand how it can- how it’s- what it’s-” she stammered. 

“And that ain’t freshwater,” Lute said. “It’s saltwater.” Somehow, Angie’s eyes widened even more. “If that stuff gets in yer mouth, it’s not like taking a swim in Old Man Caffry’s Pond. It’ll taste different.” 

“I- I can’t even imagine-” Angie began. She leaned forward more and then yelped as she lost her balance and toppled forward. The Stanleymobile swerved.

“Hey! Put yer butt back in the seat!” Stan said, regaining control of the car. “And stay there!”

“Stan, we’ve been drivin’ fer a while, how ‘bout stoppin’?” Lute suggested as Angie buckled her seat belt again. 

“We’re almost to San Diego as it is,” Stan replied. “We ain’t stoppin’.”

“I want to see the ocean!” Angie said eagerly. 

“Ya already did! It’s right there!”

“Staaaaaaaan,” Angie and Lute whined together. Stan groaned.

“Fine!” He pulled onto the shoulder of the road and parked. Angie and Lute got out of the car, nearly falling in their haste. Stan got out of the car as well. He followed them to the edge of the water and watched the McGuckets ran around in the surf barefoot.

_Musta left their shoes in the car._

“Oof!” Angie tripped and face-planted into the shallow waves. She came up spitting and her hair completely soaked. She looked at Stan with eyes as large as saucers.

“You all right?” Stan asked, amused. Angie nodded eagerly. 

“It’s salty!” she squealed. 

“Yep. That’s the ocean fer ya.”

“It’s- it’s so weird!” Stan rolled his eyes.

“You only think it’s weird ‘cause you’ve never seen it ‘fore.” Someone shoved him from behind and he joined Angie on the ground. As he spat sand out of his mouth, he heard Lute cackling. He turned around. “Oh, hell no,” Stan said. He locked a foot around one of Lute’s ankles and pulled him down.

“Why’d ya do that?” Lute asked.

“Ya pushed me!”

“Fair enough,” Lute conceded, getting up. A wave of water hit Stan in the side of the face. Angie giggled.

“Oh, you wanna splash me, huh, Gucket?” Stan said. He stood up and didn’t bother brushing the sand off of his front. “You wanna go?” Angie grinned at him. “Let’s go!” He tackled her to the ground.

“Yer cheatin’!” Angie squeaked as they rolled around. “Ya know how the ocean works!”

“Please, I’m all rusty,” Stan said, letting go of her. Angie laughed. He grinned. “God, it’s been way too long since I’ve done some good old-fashioned horseplay in the ocean.” Stan stood up. “But we gotta get goin’.”

“Aw,” Angie and Lute whined.

“Nope.”

“But we ain’t done!” Angie protested. Stan helped her up. Sand stuck to her clothes and in her hair. Her eyes sparkled with joy.

“Don’t worry, the ocean’ll be here tomorrow.”


	4. Phoenix Stan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his way to visit Stanford and Fiddleford in Gravity Falls, Stan runs into something in the forest that turns him into a firebird. Ford finds him shortly after, but there's a problem. He can't tell that it's really Stan.

Stan was awoken from an uneasy doze by a snipping sound. He lifted his head up from under his wing, and was abruptly face-to-face with Ford, who held a pair of scissors that were scarily close to his feathers. Stan let out a screech and stumbled backward, falling off his perch and onto the mid-level platform it sat on.

“Prometheus, please,” Ford said placatingly. Stan hissed. “I need to do this.”

_No! You don’t! Ya don’t need to give me a haircut!_ Stan waddled to the edge of the platform, shredding the newspaper with his talons, but couldn’t go any further. He stared at the ground morosely. _Damn leash._ Every day, Ford would take Stan to the perch in the living room, and wrap a string of twine around one of Stan’s legs, and tie the end of the twine to the perch. _It’s no better than the cage, no matter what Fiddleford says._

“Your wings have to be clipped. Even though you haven’t fully healed yet, you’ve recovered enough to fly away,” Ford said. Stan hunched down, hissing fiercely at Ford. “I can’t let you do that. Hence the tying you to the perch.” Stan let out a screech. “If I clip your wings, the twine won’t be necessary anymore.” Stan considered that.

_That sounds kinda good._ Ford moved forward again. The scissors in his hand caught the light. Stan screeched. _Nope! Nope! Not gonna happen, Sixer. Don’t care! Get those away from me!_ A cloth was draped over him. _Fuck! Now I can’t see Ford’s torture device!_ The cloth, which Stan realized was a towel, was carefully pulled off his head, letting him see again. He felt someone pick him up, gently wrapping the towel snugly around him. 

“It’s okay, Prometheus,” a voice said soothingly.

_Fiddleford! Don’t be a part of this!_

“Hush,” Fiddleford crooned, stroking his back. 

“I understand you want to be gentle with him, since he’s rapidly becoming our pet,” Ford said, “but this method you’re insisting on is taking much longer. If we did it my way, it would be over already.”

“If we did it your way, he could have a heart attack,” Fiddleford replied. Stan froze.

_Wait, what?_

“Birds are rather delicate. Goodness knows we’ve lost our fair share of birds on the farm to stressful sit’ations,” Fiddleford continued. “Stress can induce self-plucking, heart attacks, even seizures.” 

_See, Sixer? Don’t clip my wings! It’s bad enough ya “examine” me every morning. I’m not your damn pet._

“Don’t you worry yer pretty lil head,” Fiddleford said gently, still stroking Stan’s back. Despite himself, Stan began to relax. Fiddleford scratched the top of Stan’s head, which he called “the good spot”. Stan’s eyes closed. He let out a happy, low trill of satisfaction. “Aw, yer such a good birdie, ain’t ya. It’s okay.” Stan heard the snipping sound again, but was too pacified to be upset. 

“All done, Prometheus,” Ford said. “See, that wasn’t so difficult. And now you can wander around the house as you please.” Stan opened an eye to look at Ford.

_As I please, huh?_

“Of course, we would prefer that you continue to stay on your best behavior,” Ford continued. Stan hummed.

_Sure thing, Sixer. But your definition or “best behavior” and mine might be a bit different. Just so ya know._

 

* * *

 

“Aren’t ya worried you’ll lose Prometheus?” Fiddleford asked Ford as they hiked through the forest. Ford looked at Stan, who was resolutely clinging to his shoulder. 

“No, he’ll be fine. He seems to have bonded with me.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause ya treated his injuries,” Fiddleford suggested.

“Hmm, perhaps.” 

_Or it’s ‘cause I’m your twin brother and if I leave, ya won’t be able to fix me._

“Regardless,” Ford continued, “he can fly to safety if things get hairy. Can’t you, Prometheus?” When addressing Stan, he slipped into the slightly condescending tone people used with their pets.

_Goddammit, I wish I could give him the cold shoulder for talkin’ to me like that. But then he’ll get all worried and take me back to his house or somethin’._ Stan trilled softly to appease Ford.

“See? He’s quite a remarkable creature,” Ford said. “A full two weeks of studying, and I still have more to learn about him.”

_Oh, great. Does this mean you’re gonna “examine” me again? Leave me with_ some _dignity, Sixer. The nerdy name ya gave me is bad enough._ Stan trilled again and ruffled his feathers. 

“Prometheus, I’m glad you asked,” Ford said brightly.

_Asked what, Poindexter?_

“Today, we’re going to track down bigfoot. Well, a bigfoot. If I’m correct, there’s an entire colony of them that lives near Gravity Falls. The area here can be rather hazardous, but I think Fiddleford and myself are up to the task.”

“Fantastic,” Fiddleford muttered. Stan clacked his beak a couple times. “I ain’t happy neither, Prometheus.” Stan bobbed his head.

_Ford, you should take lessons on bird body language from Fidds. He knows what he’s doin’._ Fiddleford smiled kindly at Stan. 

“Yer phoenix is quite the gentleman. Fer a bird.”

“I’ve been saying it since day one: Prometheus is far more docile than I expected,” Ford agreed. “I mean, when he first saw me, he didn’t attack, like I expected. He just…sat there.”

_Yep. That was a hell of a mistake on my part._ Stan squawked. Startled by the noise, Ford tripped over a loose rock. Stan lost his grip on Ford’s shoulder, but remembered to flap his wings before he hit the ground. He landed on a nearby log.

“Prometheus, don’t do that!” Ford scolded. “Imagine what could have happened! You cannot make sudden noises when we’re out in the field!”

_Oh, fuck off!_ Stan screeched loudly. Ford crossed his arms.

“Prometheus, no! No extra noise! Bad bird!”

_“Bad bird”?_ Stan felt his anger making him hotter by the second. _I’m not a bird! I’m not your damn pet, Ford!_

“Cheese ‘n crackers!” Fiddleford gasped, stumbling backwards. Stan blinked.

_What’s his deal?_ He looked down at his body. It was completely engulfed in flames. _Go fuckin’ figure. I killed myself by gettin’ mad._

“Fascinating,” Ford murmured. Stan rolled his eyes.

_Of course Ford would say that. He’s been waitin’ for me to do the phoenix thing since he saw me._ Stan nestled down. _Might as well get comfy. Who knows how long it’ll take for me to be “reborn” or whatever._

 

* * *

 

A full two weeks after accidentally “igniting his resurrection” (as Ford put it), Stan stood on his perch and watched Ford scribble something down in his journal. 

_Probably more nonsense about how I’m “fascinating” or whatever._ Stan idly scratched his cheek with one dark talon. _Only bright side is that I’m back to my right age. Don’t ever wanna grow up as a bird again. Gettin’ those flight feathers itched like hell. And Moses, it was embarrassin’, havin’ Ford feed me by hand like that._ Stan’s feathers puffed up. _This is all fuckin’ bullshit._ He squawked irritably. Ford looked over. 

“What is it, Prometheus? Something wrong?”

_Yeah, ya named me “Prometheus”!_ Stan squawked again. Ford walked to him, to check his food and water.

“Hmm, you don’t seem to need any refreshments. Perhaps some companionship?” Ford said, stroking Stan’s back. Stan fumed silently. “Ever since you resurrected, you’ve been incredibly grumpy. Maybe some scratches on the good spot would make you feel better?”

_Don’t use that damn baby voice on me, Sixer, you-_ Stan’s angry train of thought was cut short by Ford scratching the top of his head. He closed his eyes. _Dammit. That_ is _the good spot. Fuck you, Ford._ Stan let out a low, satisfied trill. Ford smiled.

“That always seems to cheer you up. I just wish I could communicate with you. It’s strange, that, unlike the mundane birds you resemble, you appear to be unable to talk.” Stan hummed softly, barely paying attention to Ford. “You have a remarkable intelligence, though. I wonder if I could teach you to communicate through some other means.” Stan’s eyes shot open. He bobbed his head up and down eagerly. “Oh! Well, I’ll start brainstorming ideas for that, then,” Ford said. He frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe I could give you a pen, attempt to teach you to write.” 

_Holy shit, Stanford, yes! Please, do it! Get me outta here!_ Stan squawked excitedly. 

“I have a pen here somewhere,” Ford muttered, going back to his desk. Fiddleford walked into Ford’s study. “Hello, Fiddleford.”

“Stanford, I just got a call from my folks,” Fiddleford said. At the concerned tone in his voice, Ford looked up. “They were askin’ when Stan ‘ll come back to Gumption.”

“…I thought he never left.”

“No, apparently, he did leave. And he called ‘em when he got to Gravity Falls. But we haven’t seen him.” Stan squawked.

“No, Prometheus, the pen will have to wait,” Ford said. “This is urgent.”

_No no no no no! The pen is urgent!_ Stan squawked again.

“Pen?” Fiddleford asked.

“I’m going to attempt to communicate with him again. Maybe teach him to write. That’s what the pen would be for,” Ford explained. Fiddleford stared at Stan, his brow furrowed.

“Ya found Prometheus the same day my folks say Stan arrived in Gravity Falls.”

“So?”

“And those feathers on his head,” Fiddleford continued, “they look an awful lot like Stan’s hair.” Stan let out a screech.

_Yes! It’s about damn time!_ Ford and Fiddleford stared at Stan for a few seconds. _Come on, someone fuckin’ do somethin’!_ Fiddleford cleared his throat.

“…Stanford, we should prob’ly get this bird a pen.”

 

* * *

 

Fiddleford placed his arm next to Stan’s perch. He climbed onto Fiddleford, who then carried him over to Ford’s desk, where a blank piece of paper and a pen had been laid out. Stan walked to the pen immediately and picked it up with his beak. The pen nearly slid out, but Stan tightened his grip on it. He put the tip of the pen on the paper.

_Okay, Stanley. You’ve got this._ Stan dragged the pen. It made a wobbly, weak line. _Shit. Maybe I don’t. No, don’t think like that. This is your chance._ He continued to carefully trace out shaky letters. It felt like hours, but when he finally dropped the pen, the clock indicated it had only been forty-five minutes. 

“What does that say?” Ford murmured. He carefully nudged Stan off the piece of paper so he could pick it up. Fiddleford peered over Ford’s shoulder, idly stroking Stan with one hand. Exhausted from writing, Stan didn’t bother getting offended by Fiddleford petting him. He cooed softly.

_It does feel kinda nice._

“I think that’s an ‘I’,” Fiddleford said, pointing. 

“That’s an ‘M’,” Ford added. The two men stared at the paper for long enough that Stan decided to take a nap. He had just put his head under his wing when Ford spoke again. “It seems like Prometheus is trying to tell us his given name, but I can’t quite make out what it is. What letter is that?”

_Oh, like_ your _handwriting is so great when ya don’t actually have hands._ Stan let out a low grumble. 

“An ‘A’.”

“So, it says ‘Sta-” Ford cut himself off. “Stanley?” he asked. Stan looked up. The blood drained from Ford’s face. “Holy Moses. Stan, you’re- you got turned into a phoenix?” Stan bobbed his head, jumping up and down for emphasis.

“Good Lord,” Fiddleford whispered. “I suspected, but gettin’ the confirmation is still…” Ford sat down heavily in his desk chair. 

“Son of a- I called you my pet. My own brother.” Ford put his head in his hands. “God, I- I examined you, took samples of your feathers and excrement for research. When you triggered your resurrection and turned into a chick, I handfed you.” Stan walked across the desk to Ford and bumped his head against Ford’s shoulder, trilling.

_Hey, ya didn’t know. I mean, you shoulda known, but ya didn’t. Yeah, you takin’ my shit was weird as hell. But when I got myself turned into a chick, I didn’t have my right brain at first. It didn’t matter to me that ya fed me by hand and gave me that stuffed animal to sleep with. Ya did a decent job takin’ care of me, Sixer._

“Seems like Stan forgives ya, Stanford,” Fiddleford said softly. Stan shook his head. “Okay, maybe he don’t completely forgive ya. But he wants to move on, get back to normal. That right?” Fiddleford asked Stan. Stan bobbed his head.

“All right,” Ford said quietly.

_And I can chew ya out when I can talk again, anyways._

“He’ll probably save the scoldin’ until he can actually say it,” Fiddleford said.

_Damn, Fidds, can ya read my mind or somethin’?_

“We should move his perch out of your room,” Fiddleford said. He looked at Stan. “Do you want to be in the guest room?” Stan nodded eagerly. 

“I guess the bright side is that I won’t need to put newspaper down anymore. Even as a bird, I’m sure you can use a toilet,” Ford said. Stan snickered; the sound came out as a sort of stuttered hiss.

_Wouldn’t count on that, Ford. I mean, the bathroom’s a bit of a distance from the guest room, and birds aren’t exactly built to hold it. Actually, the newspaper by my perch is startin’ to look pretty far away…_

“Ya don’t want to even be safe?” Fiddleford asked Ford. Stan idly walked over to a corner of the desk, near Ford’s inkwell.

_This seems like a good spot._

“Fidds, he’s a human adult. I don’t want to treat him like a pet. Anymore,” Ford said shortly.

“But you’ve been treatin’ him like he’s a pet fer a month. Do ya really think he’s above havin’ an ‘accident’ here and there to get back at ya?”

“Fiddleford-” Ford started. Finished, Stan abruptly took off, his wing tips brushing against Ford’s glasses. He landed on his perch and began to preen himself nonchalantly. Fiddleford cleared his throat. 

“Seems like he left a lil present fer ya,” Fiddleford informed Ford. Ford looked over. He sighed.

“Stanley, was it really necessary to excrete on my desk?”

_Do ya mean “take a shit”? ‘Cause yeah, it was._ Stan crowed triumphantly. 

“I suppose the newspaper stays, then,” Ford muttered. Stan resumed preening. 

_I put up with ya treatin’ me like a pet/experiment combo deal for a month. You can handle cleanin’ up newspapers until ya fix me._

 

* * *

 

“Stanford,” Angie said, breezing into the house the second Ford opened the door, “a little birdie told me ya got my boyfriend turned into a bird. That true?”

“I didn’t get him turned into a bird,” Ford replied. “Something else in Gravity Falls did it.” Angie eyed him.

“Fair enough,” she said after a moment. “Where is he?”

“The living room.”

“Perfect.” Angie walked away. Ford sighed, closed the door, and followed her into the living room. “Howdy, Fidds,” Angie said brightly. Fiddleford looked up from Stan’s food dish, which he was filling up.

“Howdy, lil sis,” Fiddleford replied. Angie put her hands on her hips, frowning. “Lookin’ fer Stan?”

“Yessir.”

“He got impatient and flew into the kitchen. Apparently he couldn’t wait the extra two seconds fer me to fill up his bowl fer dinner.” 

“Oh. Should I go after him?” She was abruptly answered by Stan flying into the room, carrying a brazil nut in his beak. He landed on his perch and set the brazil nut on top of his now full food dish. “Goodness!” Angie gasped. Stan turned. He let out an excited squawk.

_Angie!_

“Look at yer plumage!” Angie gushed, walking over to him. Stan stood proudly.

_All that preenin’ paid off._ Angie held a hand over his head uncertainly. _Is she askin’ for permission to pet me? Go ahead, babe._ Stan butted his head into her hand. She smiled and began to stroke him. Stan closed his eyes, soothed.

“He never lets either of us do that,” Ford remarked.

“Ya treated him like yer pet fer a month,” Angie pointed out. “And anyways, I’m his girlfriend. There are dif’rent boundaries.”

“All right, Ford, his food and water have been taken care of,” Fiddleford said. “Go check his cage.”

“Cage? Ya have him caged up?” Angie asked indignantly. 

“No!” Ford said immediately. “We keep the door open constantly. It’s just where he sleeps, since it has a bottom that can be lined with newspaper.”

“Newspaper?” Angie said, confused. “Why would- oh, right. Ya thought he was an animal, so ya basically forced him to do his business in full view.” Angie scratched Stan’s head on “the good spot”. Stan trilled happily. “Poor Stanley, havin’ to go on a newspaper, in front of folks. Ya best not keep those habits when ya turn back, hon.” Stan ruffled his feathers in response. “Eh, I’m sure ya don’t need that no more. Now Ford and Fidds know yer no bird, they prob’ly leave the bathroom door open so’s ya can do yer business like a civilized man.”

“Yes, we do,” Ford confirmed. He glared at Stan. “Although-” Stan screeched. Ford looked startled for a moment, then tried again. “Although-” Stan let out another screech. Ford huffed in frustration.

“Actually, I could use the facilities,” Angie said, ignoring the two brothers. She set her bag on the couch. “Don’t burst into flames while I’m gone, darlin’.” She kissed Stan on the top of his head, eliciting a satisfied hum from him. 

“What was that about, Stanley?” Ford asked after Angie had left. Stan puffed up his feathers. 

_Don’t tell my girlfriend about the newspaper, asshole!_ Ford frowned.

“You probably didn’t want me telling Angie you’ve still been using the newspaper.” Stan bobbed his head. “She’ll understand. Birds don’t have much control over where or when they excrete.” Ford narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’ve been purposefully using the newspaper when you didn’t need to.” Stan tilted his head one way, then the other way. 

_Can ya blame me for gettin’ some revenge over bein’ treated like your pet?_

“Fine, I won’t tell her,” Ford said. “But you have to start using the bathroom.” Stan bobbed his head in agreement. “Okay. I’ll go clean your cage. This better be the last time I have to do that.” 

“Leave some clean newspaper in there, though, just in case,” Fiddleford suggested. Ford nodded. Stan squawked indignantly.

_Hey!_

“You’ve been carpet bombin’ our house fer a month. We aren’t goin’ to take any risks,” Fiddleford said firmly. Stan let out a hiss. “Don’t get touchy with me. Eat yer dinner.”

When Angie returned to the living room, Stan was alone, sitting on his perch while he nibbled at the brazil nut he’d nabbed earlier. 

“Hey there, handsome fella,” Angie said quietly. Stan dropped the brazil nut. He bobbed his head excitedly at her. Angie laughed. “Yer charmin’ no matter what skin yer wearin’.” Stan took flight and landed on her shoulder. “Aw, aren’t you the cuddlebug,” Angie crooned as Stan rubbed his face against her cheek. Stan clacked his beak a few times. “I don’t know why it took those nerds so dang long to recognize ya, darlin’. Makes perfect sense to me that it’s my boyfriend under those pretty feathers.” Stan cooed sweetly.

_I missed ya._

“I missed ya, too.” Angie kissed Stan’s beak. “Do ya know if Ford ever got pictures of ya when you were a lil baby birdie?” Stan bobbed his head.

_Duh._

“That was a bit of a pointless question, wasn’t it. Of course Ford took pictures.” Stan nibbled her ear genially. Angie giggled. “Yer ticklin’ me.” Stan nibbled her ear again.

_I know._

“I’m goin’ to go find that brother of yours to get a hold of these pictures. Are ya goin’ to come along, ridin’ on my shoulder like I’m a pirate?” Stan let out a squawk.

_Yeah. Just wish I was the pirate instead of the parrot._

“You’d make quite the dashin’ pirate scoundrel,” Angie said idly. Stan puffed up his feathers proudly.

_Hell, yeah._

 

* * *

 

Stan huddled in the branches of a large oak tree, trying to shield himself from the worst of the rain currently dampening his feathers. He shook himself, scattering droplets everywhere. 

_Dammit. It all happened so fast. That gremloblin – or whatever stupid thing Ford calls it – came outta nowhere._ A large drop of water fell from a leaf above him and landed directly on top of his beak. He let out a low sigh. _Maybe Fiddleford was right. I shouldn’t have come with Ford. But he needed someone to look out for him!_ Stan looked down at the large gash on his leg. _…And that someone got himself lost and injured._

There was a fluttering noise to his left. Stan glanced over. A chickadee had landed on his branch and was gazing at him with interest. 

“Chickadee-dee-dee-dee,” the chickadee chirped at him. 

_The fuck is this guy’s problem? Back off, buster, this is my branch!_ Stan squawked. The chickadee hopped closer. _No, that’s the opposite of what I told ya to do! Leave me alone._ Stan hissed at the songbird. The chickadee continued to ignore him, eventually nestling underneath one of his large wings. _Great. Just great. Can’t communicate with humans, can’t communicate with birds._ Stan nestled down and decided to wait out the rain.

 

Ford burst through the front door soaking wet and minus one firebird. Fiddleford looked up.

“Stanford, where’s Stanley?” Fiddleford asked. 

“I lost him.”

“You- you lost him?”

“Yes, and I need to go back out there and find him!” Ford said, digging through a chest of supplies kept near the door. 

“Back up a tad. How did ya lose him?”

“We were looking for magical dust, which I believe to be a crucial component of the eventual cure for Stan’s…condition. But while I was distracted, a gremloblin attacked us. Stan actually managed to force it to retreat, but I lost track of him during the fight.”

“Is he injured?”

“I’m not sure. However, given the size of a gremloblin, as opposed to the size of a phoenix, I would have to assume he is,” Ford said reluctantly. Fiddleford marched to the front door and began to pull on his rainboots. 

“I’m comin’ with.”

 

The rain had yet to let up. Stan fumed silently from his perch in the oak tree, where he had inadvertently collected three other songbirds in addition to the chickadee. 

_I’m not a damn den mother. I’m a human being trapped in the body of a magical bird. Can’t these assholes leave me alone for five minutes?_

“Stanley!” a voice called. Stan perked up. “Stanley, where are you?” Stan let out a loud screech.

“I heard him!” another voice said. Two figures came into view. Stan screeched again. Ford and Fiddleford looked up into the oak tree.

“Stan!” Ford exclaimed. Stan trilled loudly.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” Fiddleford said. “We were so worried!”

“Come down, let’s go back home,” Ford said. Stan took off. He landed awkwardly on Fiddleford’s shoulder, reluctant to put much weight on his injured leg. 

“That was a bit of a rough landin’, there,” Fiddleford remarked. Stan burbled, sticking out his leg for Fiddleford to see. “Oh! Ya did get hurt by that critter. I’m sorry, Stanley. We’ll get that fixed up back at home.” Fiddleford looked over at Ford. “Ford, Stan’s injured.” Ford was staring at the oak tree. “Ford?”

“You seem to have collected a small harem, Stanley,” Ford remarked. Stan hissed.

_They wouldn’t leave me alone!_

“I wonder if phoenixes are supposed to serve as some sort of protector to birds in the forest,” Ford said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 

“Stanford, that can wait. Stan’s wounded. We need to take care of him,” Fiddleford said briskly. Stan trilled in agreement. Ford tore his gaze away from the tree.

“Very well. Yes, Stanley, let’s go back home.”

 

* * *

 

The door to the guest room opened. Ford and Fiddleford, who had been waiting in the hall, looked up eagerly.

“So how long am I gonna be coughin’ up feathers?” Stan, now human again, asked. He idly pulled a bright red feather out of his hair. He coughed, and, sure enough, a small amount of feathers burst from his mouth. Ford’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Fascinating.”

“Geez, you’re not gonna collect those feathers for ‘research’ or whatever, are ya, Sixer?” Stan asked. 

“…Not in front of you,” Ford said after a moment. Stan sighed.

“I’ll take it.” Stan yawned. “Why am I so damn tired?”

“You were just in the form of an immortal magical creature a fraction of your size,” Ford said, eyeing the feathers on the ground. “Not only did you lose all the magical energy from being a phoenix, you exerted a great amount of energy transforming to your proper size.”

“Yer prob’ly hungry, too,” Fiddleford added. On cue, Stan’s stomach growled. Fiddleford grinned. “I’ll fix ya up a meal.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Stan said. He stretched. “You nerds got any bacon?”

“Bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, everything fer a full breakfast,” Fiddleford said. “We expected ya to need some nourishment once ya were back to normal. Ya like yer eggs soft-boiled, right?” 

“Uh,” Stan said. A strange, almost queasy expression crossed his face. “No eggs today. Bacon’s good, hashbrowns are good. Just…no eggs.”

“All right, Stanley, let’s get ya some human food,” Fiddleford said, walking away. Stan followed.

“Thank god. If I had to eat seeds and berries and nuts any longer, I’d prob’ly have gone insane.” Once they had left, Ford took a small plastic baggie out of his pocket and gathered up the feathers Stan had coughed up, as well as a few that had fallen out of his hair.

 

Someone knocked on the guest room door.

“Go ‘way,” Stan mumbled. “Takin’ a nap.”

“Dinner’s ready, Stanley,” a voice said. Stan sat upright, suddenly wide awake.

“Come in,” Stan said. Fiddleford opened the door. He blinked.

“My,” Fiddleford said mildly. “You, uh, ya turned that bed into a nest.” Stan looked around him. He had arranged the pillows and blankets around the edges of the bed. It did eerily resemble a nest.

“Oh. Yeah. I dunno, I had issues fallin’ asleep, even though I was so tired,” Stan said. “But movin’ everything around like this helped.” Stan shrugged. “Don’t know why. Seriously, I was so tired I almost feel asleep standin’ up. It shoulda been easy to do it laying down.”

“Ya fell asleep standin’ up fer most of this last month,” Fiddleford pointed out. “Maybe it turned into a habit?”

“Huh. Maybe.” Stan shoved a few pillows away and got out of the bed. “What’s on the menu for dinner?”

“Ford and I tried to figure out what foods ya missed the most. We’ve got some beer, pizza, hot wings, and even managed to find some toffee peanuts.”

“Yeah, not bein’ able to eat peanuts when I was a damn bird was a fuckin’ rip-off,” Stan said. He paused. “What was the third thing ya said?”

“Hot wings?” Fiddleford said. Stan turned white. “You all right there, Stan?”

“Yeah, just, uh, really, really not in the mood for hot wings,” Stan said. Fiddleford frowned. 

“And ya didn’t want eggs earlier.”

“So? Sometimes ya don’t want some kinds of food.”

“Yes, but both of the foods yer now clearly disgusted by are some form of fowl.”

“They are foul. That’s why I don’t want ‘em,” Stan said firmly. Fiddleford sighed.

“Not F-O-U-L, F-O-W-L. Seems like you’ve developed a bit of an aversion to poultry.”

“Aw, shit,” Stan groaned. He sat back down on the bed. “Why the hell- no, wait.” Stan stared at Fiddleford. “Did turnin’ into a bird fuck me up?”

“That feels like a question what don’t need an answer.”

“Fidds. Am I gonna be stuck with some bird behaviors or whatever from now on?”

“I don’t know,” Fiddleford said. “I mean, yer showin’ a few bird behaviors right now, but who can say whether they’ll stick around?” Stan groaned again. “We can have Ford run some tests.”

“Great. Tests,” Stan muttered. “It’s not like Ford’s been doin’ those on me fer over a month, or somethin’ like that.” 

“In the meantime, we’ll try to keep all poultry products out of yer sight,” Fiddleford said, ignoring him. “Hmm, ya don’t feel an inclination to chirp at sunrise still, do ya?”

“…I’ll let ya know at sunrise,” Stan said flatly.

“Fair enough. Now, yer dinner’s goin’ to get cold if it waits much longer.”

“I’ll be down in a minute. Just, uh, get rid of those hot wings before I get there,” Stan said. Fiddleford hid an amused smile.

“Sure thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a series of ficlets that I posted on my tumblr, inspired by this post by agent-jaselin: http://agent-jaselin.tumblr.com/post/164466649505/maybe-14-with-stan. I'm compiling them all in this chapter, so if I end up writing more phoenix Stan on my tumblr, I'll be sure to add it here.  
> This is considered semi-canon; it could theoretically happen in the Stanley McGucket AU, but I'm not completely convinced that it did.  
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	5. Reverse Portal Stanley McGucket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an alternate version of the Stanley McGucket AU, Ford doesn't go through the portal in 1982. Stan does. Driven by guilt and responsibility, Ford and Fiddleford work together to bring Stan back. Stan finally returns in 1994, and meets his twin sons, who Angie was pregnant with when he left.

“Lute!” At the sound of his name, Lute looked up. Fiddleford was walking quickly toward him, closely followed by Ford, Tate, and the girls. 

“Hey, folks,” Lute said weakly, trying to scrub away any tear tracks, so that the kids wouldn’t see. Fiddleford came to a stop in front of him and frowned.

“Lute, why are ya in the waitin’ area instead of Angie’s room?”

“Can we see the babies?” Daisy asked eagerly. Lute’s heart dropped. 

“No, sweetling. Can’t see the babies just yet,” he said softly. 

“They haven’t been born yet, I take it?” Ford asked.

“No. They were,” Lute said. Fiddleford took a seat next to him.

“What’s goin’ on?” Fiddleford asked. Lute looked over at his nieces and nephew.

“I don’t think the kids should hear,” he said in a low tone. Fiddleford’s face creased in worry. 

“Stanford, take the kids to the vendin’ machines or somethin’, would ya?” Fiddleford asked. Ford nodded and took a hold of the girls’ hands.

“Come on, kids,” Ford said. He walked away, Tate following him close behind. Fiddleford turned to Lute.

“Lute, what’s goin’ on? Where’s our sister, where’s her babies?” Fiddleford asked. Lute put his hands over his face. 

“One of the babies was breech and couldn’t come out. They had to take Angie to get an emergency C-section.” 

“Oh, dear.”

“But there were some other complications,” Lute whispered, trying not to cry. “I heard ‘em say that she was losin’ blood, fast, and they needed to _move_. They didn’t tell me what happened, they just made me leave the room. Only medical personnel were allowed to be with her. Someone told me she was in recovery a bit ago, but I ain’t heard _anything_ else since, and no one’s said a word ‘bout the babies.” Fiddleford put his head in his hands.

“No. Oh, poor Angie.”

“Mr. McGucket?” a voice said. Lute and Fiddleford looked up. A nurse was standing in front of them, holding a clipboard. She frowned at Fiddleford. “Is he…”

“My older brother,” Lute supplied. “Fam’ly. Ya can talk in front of him.”

“Okay. Well, we’ve moved your sister from recovery to her own room now. She’s awake and fairly lucid, but she keeps asking for a Stan?”

“Her husband,” Lute said. “He- he went missin’ a few months ago.” The nurse nodded.

“It’s not uncommon for patients to seek comfort from people dear to them, even if they’re gone. She’s in room 435, and if you want, we can stop by the nursery to bring the older of the two babies to her. Since she was just through a stressful event, we felt it would be best for her to not be left alone with an infant.” 

“Yes, yes, please,” Fiddleford said quickly. “But- but what about the other baby?” The nurse took a breath.

“Unfortunately, we had to move him to the NICU. That’s the intensive care unit for infants. He had some issues breathing. Likely infant respiratory distress syndrome.” Lute’s heart stopped.

“No…” Fiddleford whispered.

“He should be out fairly soon, though. We’re just giving him extra oxygen right now. His case is minor, and the prognosis looks good.” The nurse smiled. “He’s already doing much better than he was at birth. Seems like a tough little boy.”

“His dad was one heck of a toughie, so it makes sense,” Lute said. 

“So, would you like to visit your sister’s room, then?” the nurse asked. Lute nodded. He looked at Fiddleford.

“You get the kids and Ford, then stop by the room. I’ll go with this nice lady to pick up the baby and see Angie.”

 

The nurse knocked gently on the door of the room, then pushed it open. Lute walked quickly to Angie’s bedside. She turned her head to look at him.

“Hey, Banjey,” Lute said softly. Angie sniffled. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

“He should be here,” she whispered. Lute nodded.

“I know. I know.” He stroked her hair. “But I’m here. And Fidds and Ford and Tate and yer sweet lil girls are here, too.” Lute looked over at the nurse, who was holding one of his new nephews. “And yer lil baby is here. Do ya want to hold him?” Angie nodded. The nurse walked over and carefully handed the baby to Angie. Angie cradled her son in her arms.

“Howdy, cutie pie. It’s nice to fin’ly meet ya,” she said softly. Lute smiled at her. 

“He’s got yer eyes.” Angie nodded and held her baby closer. She looked up at the nurse.

“Where’s the other one?”

“The neonatal intensive care unit,” the nurse supplied. Tears welled in Angie’s eyes.

“Is he goin’ to be okay?”

“Yes, he should be out soon. We just had to give him some extra oxygen, since he was having trouble breathing.” Angie nodded. “He’s already a favorite of the nurses who’ve seen him.”

“Why?” Angie asked.

“Well, he’s the first polydactyl baby delivered here. Ever.”

“He’s a polydactyl?” Lute asked. The nurse nodded.

“Twelve toes.” There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Angie said. The door opened. The second it was open wide enough to let them in, Danny and Daisy ran right over to Angie. Angie smiled weakly at them. “Hey there, sweeties.” Fiddleford, Ford, and Tate walked in as well. 

“I’ll let you have some time alone,” the nurse said, leaving the room. Fiddleford walked over to Angie and kissed the top of her head.

“Good work, Banjey,” Fiddleford whispered. Angie took a shuddering breath.

“Why isn’t he here?” she said softly, staring down at her newborn child. Fiddleford stroked her hair. 

“Y’know why, junebug,” he said kindly. Danny peered over at the bundle in Angie’s arms.

“Ma, is this our lil sibling?” she asked. Angie nodded.

“Yer lil brother. Emory Dulcimearl Pines.” Danny reached out a hand and stroked Emory’s full head of hair. 

“He’s got my last name. Good,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I thought there were two,” Daisy said, looking around. 

“Yer other brother is bein’ looked after right now. He needed some extra help when he was born.”

“What’s his name?” Tate asked.

“Emmett. Emmett Stanley McGucket,” Angie said. Lute gave Angie a kiss on the cheek. 

“Wonderful names, baby sis,” he said gently. “And I ain’t seen Emmett yet, but he’ll be a handsome lil feller, just like his twin. I can already tell.” Angie nodded. Her eyes drooped.

“They take after their dad, then,” she said, syllables slurring together sleepily. 

“Here, I’ll hold my new nephew,” Fiddleford said, carefully taking Emory from Angie. “Banjey, do ya need some more rest?” 

“I think so,” Angie said. 

“We’ll leave ya be, then,” Lute said. Angie grabbed his hand.

“Lute…could- could ya please stay?” she asked. She looked away. “I don’t want to be alone.” Lute squeezed her hand.

“Yer not alone, Banjey. Ya never will be.”

 

* * *

 

“Angie?” Angie didn’t look up from Emmett’s math homework, attempting to stay focused. Her youngest child had inherited dyslexia from his father, so she spent hours each day after school, helping him with things he couldn’t read. 

“Not now, Ford,” she mumbled. She spared a quick thought, wondering why Ford had stopped by. 

_I thought he was going to be workin’ on that portal all day._

“Angie.” At the sound of a second voice, her heart stopped. She dropped the pencil she was holding and looked up, terrified but hopeful. Standing in the entryway to her kitchen was a man she hadn’t seen in twelve years.

“Stan,” she breathed. He was ragged, coated in dirt and grime, and she could smell him from where she was sitting. But he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. “Stan!” The shout tore itself from her throat as she rocketed from her seat towards her husband. Angie collapsed against Stan’s chest, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as possible. “Stan,” she whimpered, pressing her face close to his body.

“Angie,” he responded. She swallowed, listening to Stan’s heartbeat, whose rapid tempo matched her own. 

“Yer back.”

“I’m back,” Stan said, squeezing her in return. 

_But with only one arm?_ She shook her head, burying her face in Stan’s chest. _No. No. Don’t think about that right now. All that matters is that the love of yer life is back._ Tears began to leak from her eyes.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Stan said. 

“I missed you. I missed you so much,” she sobbed. “Every day you were gone, I- I saw ya, in-in in our children. Our beautiful children.” She could feel Stan’s chin resting snugly on the top of her head.

“Well, they’re your kids too,” he said softly. “Of course they’re beautiful.” She laughed.

“Ya learned how to be such a sweet-talker while you were gone.”

“Nah, just how to speak a buncha alien languages,” Stan said dismissively. Angie ignored the other people in the kitchen. The only thing she wanted to pay attention to was her husband’s heartbeat, the feel of his now thoroughly dingy red jacket, and the warmth percolating from his body into hers. 

“I could hold you forever,” Stan whispered in her ear, his lips brushing up against her earlobe. Angie smiled. 

“With one arm?”

“Hell, yeah,” Stan said. Angie chuckled.

“Don’t swear in front of yer son.”

“Son?”

“Didn’t Ford tell ya?” Angie asked. Stan moved slightly.

“He only told me that you and the baby were fine. Wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

“Ma?” Emmett asked. “Who- who are ya hugging?” With a sigh, Angie peeled herself away from her husband. She stroked his face.

“A beard suits ya.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Angie smiled fondly at Stan. “But I think it’s time we did some introductions.”

 

* * *

 

Stan stared at the children sitting patiently on the couch.

_I was gone fer too long. They picked up manners._ Daisy cocked her head at him, frowning. It felt like someone was squeezing Stan’s heart. _She doesn’t recognize me. None of my own damn kids know who I am._ A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, making him jump slightly.

“Hon, go ahead and take a seat,” Angie said quietly to Stan. Stan nodded jerkily. He looked around, spotted his old recliner, and sat down. Daisy continued to stare at him.

“Who’s the smelly guy?” Emory asked Angie. 

_That’s Emory, right? Yeah, Emory’s the one who looks like a Pines. Emmett’s the spittin’ image of Lute._ Stan bit his lip. _I barely know my kids’ names._

“Em, manners,” Danny chided. Stan felt tears begin to prick the corners of his eyes.

_God. Look at her. So grown up and responsible._ Danny smiled politely at him. 

“Sorry, sir. My lil brothers don’t always think before they talk. I’m guessin’ yer one of our relatives from our dad’s side? My name’s Danny.”

“I know who you are, princess,” Stan said in a voice thick from holding back tears. Danny blinked. A split second later, recognition broke across her face.

“D-Daddy?” Danny whispered. Stan nodded silently.

“Wait, what?” Daisy said, looking back and forther between Stan and Angie. She eventually landed on Stan. Tears began to well in her blue eyes.

“You girls are all grown up,” Stan said quietly. He rubbed his eyes with the one hand he had left. “You’re so beautiful. Just like yer ma.” Danny sniffled. Emmett looked at his big sister, concerned.

“Danny, what’s wrong?” Emmett asked quietly. 

“Our dad’s back,” Daisy answered. Emmett frowned at Stan.

“Him?”

“Yeah,” Danny said. She looked at Angie. “Right, Ma?” Angie nodded.

“Yer dad’s sittin’ in that armchair, yep.” Angie smiled sadly at Stan. “Took twelve years, but he’s home.” Stan smiled back at her. 

“D-Dad, stand up so’s I can hug ya,” Danny said, rubbing her eyes. Stan stood. Immediately, he was tackled with hugs from Danny and Daisy. The tears he’d been keeping back escaped and trickled down his cheeks. He let out a small sob.

“Girls, I’m so sorry I can’t hug ya back too well,” Stan whispered to them. Daisy buried her head in Stan’s shirt.

“It’s okay, Dad, we can hug you just fine,” Daisy replied. Stan wrapped his good arm around his daughters, holding them as tightly as possible. 

“We missed ya,” Danny said softly.

“I missed you,” Stan said. “So much.” After a moment, the hug broke apart. Danny and Daisy each kissed him on the cheek. Stan smiled. “Yer all grown up.”

“Not yet. Still got a few years left,” Daisy said cheekily. Stan ruffled her wild brown curls, eliciting a smile from her. Danny looked over at Emmett and Emory, who were still sitting on the couch, eyeing the proceedings distastefully.

“Come on, you two, give Dad a hug,” Danny said. Emmett shrunk back into the couch cushions, clearly afraid. Stan’s heart broke.

_My own son is scared of me._ Danny looked back at Stan. 

“Dad, don’t take it personally. Emmett’s just nervous. He’s a lot like Uncle Fidds.”

“…Yeah,” Stan mumbled.

“What about you, Emory?” Daisy asked. “You brave enough?” Emory wrinkled his nose.

“We’re not supposed to hug strangers.” It was like Stan had been punched in the gut. “And anyways, he’s smelly.” Angie looked over at Stan, an apologetic expression on her face. 

“Stan, I-”

“He’s right, I am pretty smelly,” Stan said with a low chuckle. Angie frowned, not buying his cheerful response. “Should probably go shower.”

“I’ll come,” Angie said immediately. Daisy stared at Angie in disgust.

“Ma, you’re not gonna shower together, are you?”

“Daisy Leigh, behave,” Angie scolded. “I’m goin’ to show him how to work the nozzle ‘n whatnot. It’s changed since he was gone.”

“…Oh.” 

“Help yer brother with his homework in the meantime,” Angie said, already walking away. “Come on, darlin’.” Stan followed Angie out of the living room and down the hall, trying to ignore the way Emmett shrunk back even more when he passed. They came to a stop in front of the bathroom. Angie pushed the door open. Stan’s jaw dropped.

“So I take it ‘nozzle and whatnot’ is code for ‘the whole dang bathroom’?” Stan asked. Angie shrugged. 

“Lute moved in after ya- y’know. He thought change would make us all feel better, so he decided to mess with the bathroom. _While_ I was still pregnant. Lost track of how many times I asked ‘Why did I let you remodel the bathroom?’” She shook her head. “Pretty annoying, havin’ to pee a million times a day while someone is redoing the room with the closest toilet.”

“Geez.”

“Look, Stan, I- I hope ya don’t mind if I sit in here with ya,” Angie said quietly.

“So Daisy was right?”

“No. Ya need to shower alone, and get all that crud off ya. I just- I don’t want to be apart from ya yet.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” A moment passed. “So, uh, how does the shower work?”

“The same as it did before,” Angie replied, sitting on the bathroom counter to watch Stan disrobe.

“Heh.” Stan glanced at Angie as he took off his shirt. He regretted it immediately. Her easy smile was gone, replaced by a devastated look.

_Of course she’s gonna be upset seein’ my scars._

“Angie…” Stan started. Angie looked down at the ground.

“Get yer stinky self in the shower, hon. We can talk ‘bout it all later.”

“Okay.” Stan opened the shower curtain and fiddled with the spigot. He paused. “Y’know, Daisy’s gonna think we’re up to somethin’ in here.”

“Both yer daughters will. They have a tendency to get their minds in the gutter. They got that from you, ya know.”

 

* * *

 

Like he had for the last eleven years, Stan jolted awake. He almost sat up, but upon feeling Angie’s arm wrapped around his chest, decided not to. Stan slowly rolled over to look at his wife. Angie made a small noise in her sleep and scooched closer to him. 

_She’s always been one hell of a heavy sleeper._ Stan stared at her, noticing wrinkles on her face he didn’t recognize. Some part of him twanged with sadness that he wasn’t there to see them form, or to see the lightened streak in her hair start to appear. He reached out a hesitant hand and stroked her cheek. Still asleep, she smiled and leaned into his hand with a satisfied noise. Stan smiled in response.

Stan lost track of how long he stared at Angie while she slept, the both of them bathed in watery rays from the rising sun. Like she always did, Angie woke up slowly. When she first opened her eyes, she stared at him in groggy confusion, her blue eyes cloudy from sleep. 

“Hey,” he whispered. The confused expressed vanished, replaced by one of euphoria. Angie beamed at him.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she whispered back, stroking his face. “I- I thought it was a dream, you comin’ back. Somethin’ to take the edge off the nightmares this last decade.”

“I know how that feels,” Stan said quietly. Angie leaned her head against his chest with a satisfied sigh.

“I want to touch yer skin, darlin’. You should sleep shirtless sometimes,” Angie told him.

“Only if you do, too.”

“You drive a tough bargain, Mr. Pines,” Angie said with a chuckle. “But you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Sweet.” Stan wrapped an arm around her. “Oh, uh, the kids- they wouldn’t come here in the middle of the night fer some reason, would they?”

“Durin’ shirtless nights, or normal nights?”

“Both.”

“I doubt the boys will come in here fer a while. Emmett, he…he’s goin’ to take a little time to warm up to ya. And Emory won’t leave him alone in their bedroom, since Emmett’s nervous.”

“Yeah. You mentioned that before. What else can ya tell me ‘bout him?”

“Well, he’s got twelve toes. And he’s _very_ graceful. His favorite color is blue, and his favorite food is peach cobbler,” Angie recited. Stan smiled.

“Peach cobbler, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s kinda funny, actually, since Emory can’t even eat peaches.”

“What?”

“He’s got a tree nut allergy. Peaches are included, since they’re related to almonds.”

“Damn. Does Emmett have any allergies?”

“Nah. But he’s got asthma. He- he had trouble breathin’ when he was born,” Angie said softly. She closed her eyes. “The doctors- they had to keep him in baby intensive care overnight. Infant respiratory distress syndrome, they said.”

“Oh, shit. I- I was wonderin’ if there were complications with the boys. Since it started so rough, and the girls weren’t that easy on ya.”

“I got put on bed rest near the end,” Angie said, still in a low tone. “I fell and- almost- almost lost ‘em. And then of course, the day after I was allowed to go walkin’ ‘round, I went into labor. In Portland.”

“Portland?”

“Lute took me there. Thought change of scenery would do me good.” Angie buried her head in Stan’s chest. “Ended up stayin’ there in a hospital fer a week and a half, from the emergency c-section, blood loss, and nutrition deficiencies.”

“I’m so sorry you went through that alone.”

“I wasn’t alone. Lute ‘n Fidds ‘n everyone were there with me.”

“Yeah. But I shoulda been there.”

“Darlin’, it’s okay.” A moment passed. Angie cleared her throat. “Anyways, Emory’s favorite color is purple, and he likes workin’ with me in the garden.”

“Oh?”

“He also likes readin’ ‘bout explosions.”

“Heh. We should set off illegal fireworks together. Father-son bonding.”

“…Yeah,” Angie said. Stan stared at her.

“Did you just agree to somethin’ against the law?”

“Hon, I just got ya back after twelve years. Ya could ransack the police station and I wouldn’t care.”

“Hmm, there’s an idea.”

“Stan.”

“Hey, you said I could do it,” Stan said. Angie chuckled. Her bedside alarm went off. “What’s that for?”

“The kids.” Angie sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Got to get ‘em ready fer school ‘n dropped off ‘n whatnot.” Stan sat up as well.

“Can I come?”

“Come where?”

“Droppin’ off the kids.”

“Oh! Of course ya can,” Angie said, startled.

“Good. Never dropped off kids at school before,” Stan said. Angie looked at him thoughtfully. 

“No. Ya never did. Well, maybe ya like it enough that ya do it for me, so’s I can sleep in.” She winked at him. “Got to get my beauty sleep in.”

“Aw, babe, ya don’t need beauty sleep.”

“I do! I’ve got wrinkles!”

“They’re gorgeous wrinkles,” Stan said, kissing her. Angie kissed him back. The bedroom door burst open.

“Ma! We have to get goin’! I forgot that I need to be at school early fer band practice and- ew!” Daisy shouted. 

“What’s ‘ew’?” Stan asked. Daisy wrinkled her nose.

“You’re being all, like, couple-y.”

“So?”

“Ma doesn’t do couple-y things.”

“Now that yer father’s back, honey, I do,” Angie retorted. “Now, get on out of here, ‘less ya want to see yer parents changin’.”

 

* * *

 

Angie slowly regained consciousness. It was still dark, and as she squinted at the alarm clock by her bedside, she could see it was four in the morning.

_Then why did I wake up?_

“No…” The sound of Stan’s whimper, coupled with him moving uneasily next to her, chased away her grogginess. Angie looked over at her husband. His eyes were closed tightly as he tossed and turned, pleading with someone to leave him alone. 

_He’s having a nightmare._ Angie reached out a hesitant hand and put it on Stan’s shoulder.

“Stan? Darlin’?” she said gently. He slapped away her hand. Angie swallowed. “Stanley, I need ya to wake up fer me. Please.” Stan continued to move around, lost in his nightmares. With a sigh, she reached over and pinched Stan’s nose shut, a trick that she had used on many of her older siblings as a child. Stan gasped. His eyes popped open, but they were glassed over. He looked at her.

_He can’t see me, can he._ Angie took a hold of one of his hands, rubbing her fingers along the calluses and scars she had yet to get acquainted with. She took a deep breath.

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” she said. Stan continued to stare at her blankly. She lifted his other hand to her mouth and kissed his rugged, worn knuckles. “Darlin’, come back to me. Please.” Stan’s fingers twitched. “That’s it. Listen to my voice. Concentrate on what I’m sayin’, and what yer feelin’.” She stroked his hand. “Ground yourself in this, the way my fingers feel against yer skin. The way my voice sounds. And come back to me.” Stan let out a long breath. Angie felt him begin to squeeze her hand. She smiled at him. He was still looking at her. But now she could see recognition in his rich brown eyes. 

_Twelve years later, they’re still that beautiful color. So deep I could get lost in ‘em._

“Angie,” Stan croaked out. “I- I-”

“Shh. It’s okay,” Angie said soothingly. Stan sat up. He looked away, embarrassed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Angie frowned.

“What for?”

“Scarin’ ya.” Angie shook her head.

“Ya didn’t scare me, darlin’. It’s nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”

“But-”

“I’m just glad I could get ya to come back to me so quick,” she continued. 

“How did you know what to do?” Stan asked. 

“Fidds went through sim’lar problems, after he got rescued from that cult he made.”

“Fidds made a cult?”

“That’s a long story,” Angie said, waving a hand. “But he had flashbacks ‘n nightmares.” She squeezed the hand she was still holding. “And he’s not the only one.” Stan stared at her. 

“Did you…” Angie nodded. “Oh, shit. Oh, Angie, I’m so sorry.” Angie shook her head.

“Ain’t yer fault. Merely the fault of my own, broken brain.”

“Don’t say that. Yer not broken,” Stan said immediately. “Me, on the other hand.”

“No, Stan. I’m broken, too.” She stroked his face, relishing the rough feel of his beard. “But that’s okay. We’re broken together.”

“You’re too good for me,” Stan said after a moment.

“No. I’m just right fer you.”

“You didn’t have to wake me up, y’know.”

“I did.”

“I can handle my problems on my own. Done it for twelve years.”

“Just ‘cause ya _can_ handle it on yer own don’t mean ya _should_.” Angie kissed him on the cheek. “I’m with you, okay? Always.” Stan smiled at her. And even though she knew he would deny it if she pointed it out, she could see tears standing in his eyes.

“Why do ya have all the answers?” he said quietly. Angie smiled back at him.

“I’m a mom. I’m supposed to.”

 

* * *

 

Stan tried to calm his nerves. Angie looked at him, clearly torn between amusement and concern.

“Darlin’?” Angie said quietly. 

“Yeah?” Stan responded.

“Are ya nervous?”

“Would ya laugh if I said I was?” 

“Oh, no, honey, not at all,” Angie said. Danny leaned forward in her seat to put a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

“Dad, we get it. You still get weird around a lotta noise,” Danny said.

“And McGuckets make lots of noise,” Daisy added. 

“Hon, we can call it off if ya want,” Angie said. Stan shook his head.

“No. I know your folks think of me as their own. I don’t wanna be rude to ‘em.”

“They would understand,” Angie said firmly. Stan glanced out the window. His heart ached at the sight of the white farmhouse, orchard, barn, and pasture he’d spent years tending to. 

“We’re already here,” Stan pointed out.

“We can leave. Say the word.”

“No. I- I wanna see your folks.” 

“Are ya sure?” Angie asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Angie parked the car. She turned around. “Kidlets, we’re here!” Daisy let out a low whoop. Emmett yawned widely and opened his eyes. Emory didn’t move. “Daisy, wake up yer lil brother, would ya.”

“On it,” Daisy said. She opened her mouth.

“Without yellin’. We’re in a car, junebug.”

“Fine,” Daisy grumbled. She pulled on Emory’s caramel-colored curls. Emory mumbled something, but didn’t wake up. “He’s not gonna wanna wake up, Ma.”

“Figure it out,” Angie said, getting out of the car. Daisy groaned. Stan got out. He shoved his hand in his pocket and surveyed the farm. Angie walked over to him. With a small sigh, she put her head on his shoulder. “Ya look like yer deep in thought.”

“Nah. Not really.”

“Holy- they’re here!” A shout rang from the house. Angie and Stan looked over. Harper was standing on the porch, beaming. “Ya look more bear than man, Stanley.” Stan grinned.

“Your hair’s grayer than the Seattle sky,” Stan retorted. Harper chuckled. The front door opened, and two other McGuckets exited. Violynn, her bright red hair faded with age, smiled fondly, as did Basstian, who still towered over his older siblings. 

“Come on in, Stan, you’ve got some nieces and nephews what missed ya,” Violynn called. Daisy exited the car and began to head toward the barn.

“Whoa, there, missy, where are ya goin’?” Angie asked. 

“Emory still won’t wake up. I’m gonna grab a chicken and put it on his head,” Daisy replied. 

“No, no ya won’t,” Stan said quickly. “Just plug his nose until he wakes up.” Stan grinned at Angie. “That’s what I do with your ma.” Angie rolled her eyes, but planted a small kiss on his cheek anyways.

“Let’s go inside.”

 

Stan listened to Mason, Violynn’s youngest child and only son, talk excitedly about the classes he was enrolled in for the fall. 

“I can’t believe you’re in college, kiddo,” Stan said, shaking his head.

“Almost done with my bachelor’s in vocal performance, actually,” Mason said proudly. 

“Geez. The last time I saw ya, you weren’t even a teenager.”

“Have ya talked to Layla yet?”

“No. Why?”

“She and her partner are expectin’.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Layla’s ‘bout eight months along already.”

“Wow.”

“It’s- it’s really good to see ya again, Uncle Stan,” Mason said quietly. Stan smiled at his nephew.

“It’s good to see you too.”

“So, what happened while you were gone?” Mason asked. Stan instinctively tensed. The room, which had been filled with amicable chatter, suddenly became silent.

“Mason,” Violynn hissed. 

“What? It’s a valid question,” Mason said defensively. “I mean, he was gone fer twelve years. Then he shows up outta the blue with scars and missin’ an arm. Clearly _somethin’_ happened to him.”

“Mason, quit talkin’ ‘fore ya dig yourself a hole deep enough to be yer grave,” Pa McGucket rumbled, sitting up straight in his armchair, where he had been dozing. Stan felt someone sit next to him on the couch.

“Stanley, are you all right?” Ma McGucket asked gently, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. Stan nodded. 

“Yeah, I- I’m fine,” Stan choked out. He glanced around the room. “Where’s-”

“Emmett had a bit of a nervous fit, so Angie took him to the guest room to calm down,” Lute answered. “Poor kid ticked off our most irritable steer while he was playin’ by the pasture.”

“I can go get her,” Harper said, starting to get up from his chair. Stan shook his head, suddenly painfully aware of how he was the center of attention.

_And not in a good way. In a “if we don’t take care of him, he’ll break” kinda way. God, I’m so sick of bein’ treated like this._

“I’m fine,” Stan said firmly. He took a steadying breath. “Mason, what happened to me is a long story.”

“Stanley, ya don’t need to answer his question,” Violynn interjected. She glared at her son. “He knows better ‘n to bring up painful memories.”

“No, really, I- I should talk about it,” Stan said. He idly scratched the stumpy end of his right arm.

“Only in a specific situation,” Michelle, Basstian’s wife, intervened. “And in a controlled environment.”

_…Oh yeah, she’s a shrink, isn’t she?_

“This seems as good a time as any,” Stan insisted. Michelle pursed her lips. “And it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve told the story.”

_I practiced it twenty times to make sure all the bullshit in it would hold up._

“If you’re sure…” Michelle started slowly. Stan nodded. 

“I am. But, uh, Mason, go grab your Aunt Angie, would ya?” Stan said. “Y’know, moral support or whatever.” Mason nodded and ran off. Basstian cleared his throat.

“‘Fore that troublemaker gets back with the troublemaker ya married,” Basstian said, “Stan, I feel I should address the elephant in the room. Why haven’t ya gotten yourself a prosthetic yet?”

“Oh, for this?” Stan said, waving what remained of his right arm. “I’ve been back like, a month. Fidds and Danny just moved onto the prototype phase. They brought some of their stuff here, so they could keep workin’ on it. I think they’re in the front yard right now.”

“Yer havin’ yer daughter and brother-in-law build ya a prosthetic arm?” Harper asked. 

“Well, yeah. For one thing, it’s free. For another, they’re the only people who would be willing to make me an arm that can launch missiles.”

“Yer jokin’,” Harper said flatly. There was a loud crash from outside.

“Uncle Fidds! Get the fire extinguisher!” Danny shouted. Stan raised an eyebrow at Harper. 

“…Yer not jokin’,” Harper amended. Pa McGucket got up from his armchair. 

“Better go see what sort of damage the grandkids did to the property this time.”

 

* * *

 

Stan was woken up from his afternoon nap by the family dog jumping off his lap. Apple bounded toward the front door, barking excitedly. The door opened.

“Hi, Apple!” Emily gushed, crouching in the middle of the hall so that the dog could lick her hand. 

“Em, you’re causing a traffic jam,” Daisy complained.

“Not my fault he wants scritches,” Emily said, scratching behind Apple’s fluffy ears. 

“Ugh, move!” Daisy said. She nudged her younger sister, who didn’t budge. Stan whistled, making Apple’s ears perk up. The dog abruptly abandoned Emily and ran back over to Stan, jumping onto his lap and curling up. 

“Aw,” Emily said sadly. Daisy shoved her again.

“Move, squirt!”

“Fine!” Emily finished walking into the house. She dropped her backpack on the couch and made a beeline for Stan. “Apple really likes ya, Dad,” Emily remarked, resuming her petting of the dog. 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Don’t know why.”

“He _is_ a therapy dog,” Danny said. “He’s trained to be really calm and give people attention if they have trauma or stress.”

“So?” Stan asked gruffly. Danny looked at him meaningfully.

“Dad.”

“So, uh, why’d you get a therapy dog in the first place?” Stan said, carefully changing the topic. Danny rolled her eyes and went to drop her school stuff off in her bedroom. 

“Uncle Lute took Ma to some therapy dog sessions after Em and Emmett were born,” Daisy said. “But we didn’t get Apple until Em and Emmett were about five. That was when Emmett got bad separation anxiety, and Em kept askin’ questions that set off Ma.”

“Hey!” Emmett protested. Daisy looked at her younger brother. 

“Ma had to homeschool you for kindergarten ‘cause you were too scared to leave the house. That’s separation anxiety.”

“But ya don’t have to _tell_ people about it,” Emmett said.

“Dad’s our dad. He’s not ‘people’.” Emmett muttered something and walked away. Daisy turned her attention back to Stan. “Anyways, since Ma was regressing, and Emmett was having problems, Uncle Lute went and bought a licensed therapy dog. Em and Emmett are the ones who named it Apple.” Apple let out a small huff. Daisy set her bag on the couch next to Emily’s. “He’s a good dog. Uncle Lute did a lot of things to try to make life easier for all of us, but Apple was the best one.” Daisy looked over at Angie, who was taking off her shoes by the front door. “Right, Ma?”

“I certainly think so,” Angie said. “Don’t leave yer stuff in the livin’ room, though. Put it in yer bedroom.” Daisy and Emily groaned, but did as they were told. Angie walked over to Stan and kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, darlin’.”

“Hey, babe,” Stan said. He stroked Apple idly. “Is this thing really a therapy dog?”

“Yep. Helped us all through some rough times.” Emily and Emmett ran back into the living room. 

“Dad, we have an assignment fer class,” Emily said. Stan raised an eyebrow.

“What kinda assignment?”

“We have to write an essay ‘bout something one of our parents did,” Emmett explained. 

“Can you tell us one of yer portal stories?” Emily asked. “For the assignment?”

“Sugar-cube, I don’t know how wise it is to use one of yer dad’s stories fer that,” Angie said. 

“Yeah, you should probably use somethin’ from this reality,” Stan agreed. Emily and Emmett deflated. “But I can still tell ya a story, if ya want.”

“Ooh, yes!” Emily said eagerly. She sat down on the floor. Emmett took a seat next to her. Stan continued to stroke Apple.

“Hmm. Let’s see…how about the were-beast.”

“‘Were-beast’?” Emmett asked. 

“Yep. Okay, I was in the, uh, I dunno the code designation fer it, but the locals called it the Twilight Dimension. It had all sortsa weird things in it, things that ya might find in Gravity Falls, but even yer Uncle Ford wouldn’t wanna study. That’s how scary and creepy they were.

“I got there about three years after the accident, so I was gettin’ used to how some realities were just weird or dangerous, but I wasn’t that good at handlin’ ‘em yet. So, the first thing I did when I got there was to find someone friendly, who could help me out until I left that dimension. His name was Erwin. He was…all right. A bit strange, but everyone there was. Somethin’ ‘bout growin’ up in a world where it was always in-between day and night.

“Found out later that when you grow up in the in-betweens, you turn into one of ‘em. Now that, that I figured out about a week into my stay. I was sleepin’ at Erwin’s, or at least tryin’ to. It always bein’ twilight messed up my sleep cycle. Anyways, just as I was about to finally drift off, I heard somethin’. The door creaked open, and a thing sorta floated into the room.”

“‘Thing’?” Emily asked.

“It wasn’t anything we have words for. It was this sorta…it was silver, and like a gas or liquid or somethin’. It didn’t have any shape. It started driftin’ towards me. I did the natural thing, and booked it outta there. Started yellin’ fer Erwin.

“Erwin popped outta one of the other rooms, and asked me what was wrong. I told him, said that there was some weird thing in my bedroom that prob’ly wanted to kill me, or eat me, or somethin’. That’s what most of the weird things in alternate dimensions wanna do.” Angie cleared her throat. Stan suddenly realized that his children wore twin expressions of horror. “Uh…well, not- not all of ‘em. There were some cool, nice things that didn’t wanna do that. But this sucker, it wasn’t one of those.”

“Did Erwin know what it was?” Emmett asked.

“Oh, yeah. He did. ‘Cause the second I told him what happened, he apologized fer scarin’ me. Said he thought I was asleep. ‘If you were asleep, this whole thing would’ve been painless.’”

“Oh, no,” Emmett whispered.

“Yep. And right in front of me, he turned into the weird, shapeless, strange thing. I left that house, never looked back. Anyways, that’s the story of the were-beast.”

“Why’d you call it a were-beast?” Emily asked.

“‘Cause Erwin could be human or the weird thing. Still can’t pronounce the actual word fer what he could turn into, but I call it a beast ‘cause were-beast sounds cooler than were-gas-liquid-thing.”

“Can Apple sleep with me tonight?” Emmett said in a shaky voice. 

“Of course, honey,” Angie said. Emmett nodded gratefully and bolted out of the room. Emily stood.

“I thought it was a cool story, Dad.”

“Thanks, squirt,” Stan said. Emily walked away. Stan grimaced. “Sorry, Angie. Didn’t mean to spook ‘em.”

“It’s okay. Just be more careful ‘bout what ya tell Emmett.” Angie stroked Apple. “‘Fore this thing has to spend more time than usual in Emmett and Emily’s room.”

 

* * *

 

There was a knock on the bedroom door. Stan groaned.

“Angie, you take care of whatever kid it is,” Stan said blearily. There was no response. Stan opened his eyes. Angie wasn’t there. “Uh…” There was another knock. He sat up. “Come in, I guess.” The door opened, revealing all four of his children. Danny was holding a breakfast tray. “What’s-” Stan started.

“We made you breakfast!” Daisy chirped. Stan rubbed his eyes.

“Wha- is it Father’s Day or somethin’?” he asked. His children shook their heads.

“It’s officially one year since you came back,” Danny said. 

“Oh. Huh, yeah, I guess it has been. What are you kids doin’ just standin’ there? Get over here, I’m hungry.” Emily and Emmett rushed over and climbed onto his bed, while Daisy and Danny ( _They’re tryin’ to be responsible big sisters, look at ‘em._ ) walked over more slowly. Danny daintily set the tray on Stan’s lap. Stan looked down at the meal eagerly. “So what’s on the menu, then?”

“Bacon,” Emmett said, pointing helpfully.

“Fantastic.”

“Eggs,” Emily said. “The weird way you like ‘em.” She wrinkled her nose for emphasis. Stan picked up one of the soft-boiled eggs and popped it into his mouth.

“Delicious.”

“Pancakes,” Daisy said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“But not in a shape,” Stan said. Daisy shook her head.

“I don’t have enough talent to make shapes yet.” Stan looked at her.

“Wait, you kids really made me breakfast?” he asked. 

“Did you not believe us?” Emmett said, crestfallen. Stan ruffled his son’s hair.

“No, sport, it’s just- I thought your ma made most of it and you like, mixed ingredients or somethin’.”

“No, we actually made it. Except for the eggs,” Emily said, wrinkling her nose again. “Ma had to do that. We like eggs that taste good. So we don’t like soft-boiled eggs.”

“Emmett made the toast,” Danny said, pointing to a few triangular-cut toast pieces, butter melting on top of them. “Emily squeezed the orange juice, so it’s nice and fresh.” Emily beamed as Stan lifted the glass of orange juice and took a sip. “I made the bacon, and Daisy made the pancakes. And Ma made the eggs. ‘Cause yeah, none of us knew how to make ‘em that way. But Ma remembered. Apparently she made them that way a lot fer you.” Stan looked down at the full plate in front of him, something suddenly heavy in his stomach.

“Yeah. She- she did.” He swallowed, choking back tears.

_Stop cryin’ over this bullshit, Stan. You’re back. You’ve been back for a whole year. Ya don’t need to get all upset, thinkin’ about the way Angie would make eggs for you._ Danny tilted her head.

“Dad? You all right?”

“Yeah, I just- uh-” Stan cleared his throat. “Gimme a sec to eat my meal in private, okay, gremlins?”

“Sure, Dad,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes and sliding off the bed. Emmett and Emily each gave Stan a kiss on the cheek, as did Danny, before leaving. The kids walked past Angie, who had arrived in the doorway at some point.

“Dad liked it!” Emily chirped. Angie smiled.

“Good. I was hopin’ he would.”

“But he got sad, outta nowhere,” Emmett whispered. Angie nodded sadly.

“Not all that surprised. Now, you kidlets go ‘n eat all the reject food from the practice runs, okay?” The kids cheered as they headed towards the kitchen. Angie chuckled softly. She looked over at Stan, who was still staring down at his plate, numb. “Darlin’,” she said quietly, closing the door. Stan shook his head.

“Don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m back. Why- why do I keep thinkin’ about this- this stupid shit?” Angie crossed the room and took a seat next to her husband. She stroked his hair.

“You’ll have to be more specific, hon.”

“Like- ugh, it’s so stupid.”

“I promise it ain’t.”

“Like the way you made eggs for me on my birthday, and our anniversary. Even though you didn’t like ‘em soft-boiled, and the kids didn’t like ‘em soft-boiled, you still learned to make ‘em that way. For me. And when I see my clothes folded up in the dresser. You fold ‘em that special way, and they still smell like you a bit.” Stan put his hands over his eyes, attempting to stem the flow of tears now leaking from them. “God, it’s so fuckin’ pointless to be upset over all this. I should be _happy_ that I see the random stuff you do. Singin’ when you don’t think people are watching. Stickin’ your tongue out when you take pictures. And even the kids, with Danny hoggin’ all the blueberries when we buy ‘em, or Daisy makin’ up sayings.” He sighed and nudged one of the pieces of toast on his plate. “See? Stupid.”

“No.” Stan looked at Angie, startled.

“What?”

“No, it- it ain’t stupid, darlin’. Yer not thinkin’ ‘bout how you see those things now. Yer thinkin’ ‘bout how ya went fer so long before ya saw it again.”

“I-” Stan started. Angie leaned against him. 

“I get those feelin’s, too. About the way ya smell, like musk and gasoline and whisky and smoke, and how it still lingers a bit after you leave. That twinkle in yer eye when ya tell jokes, or are encouragin’ to kids to steal things. Hearin’ you mumble in yer sleep, still sellin’ crappy appliances to rubes, even now. Leavin’ yer mouthwash and toothpaste out on the counter no matter how many times I tell ya to put it away.” Angie sniffed, and Stan was shocked to see tears standing in her eyes. “All those tiny lil things that make a life with someone. They were gone fer so long.” Stan wrapped his new prosthetic arm around her shoulders and squeezed tightly.

“Yeah. They were,” he whispered. He buried his face in her hair. “It’s about damn time I got them back.” They sat like that for a few minutes. Angie sighed.

“You should eat yer breakfast, darlin’. The kids and I planned a whole day of activities.” Stan groaned. Angie kissed him. “Happy anniversary. Welcome back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another compilation of ficlets I posted on my tumblr. I'm finally going through all the stuff I've written with the Stanley McGucket AU there, and putting them on here.  
> This is the Reverse Portal version of the Stanley McGucket AU. The original Reverse Portal AU and this one have some key differences, but the premise is essentially the same: Stan goes through the portal, comes back missing an arm.  
> As always, if you have any questions or comments, leave them below or message me at thelastspeecher.tumblr.com.


	6. Sally and Mearl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Ma and Pa McGucket met, and their relationship and family grew.

Sally Virginia Turner grew up in a house that expected a lot of her. Luckily, she had everything her parents wanted. She had brains, beauty, and enough charm to fool even a fox. She never wanted for anything, never got her hands dirty, and rarely struggled with anything she faced. At least, until she met Dulcimearl McGucket.

Sally had made the decision to study law at school. Of the fields her parents wished her to go into, it seemed the best suited for her. She had a silver tongue that could turn as sharp as a dagger when it needed to be. But all her wits and charm left her when she saw a dirt-covered farmer peddling his wares at the farmer’s market.

“Howdy there!” the man said cheerfully as she approached. 

“Howdy,” Sally replied. 

“Are ya one of the students at the school?”

“Yep. Studyin’ law. What ‘bout you?” The man laughed.

“My fam’ly don’t have the funds to send me to school. Barely got the gas money to let me drive into Little Rock every week.”

“Yer not from ‘round here?”

“Nope. I’m from a lil town called Gumption, ‘bout an hour away. What ‘bout you?”

“I’m from Tennessee.”

“Ya look awful young to be on yer own, in an unfamiliar state,” he said. Sally shrugged.

“My folks home-schooled me. I finished and graduated ‘fore most other folks.”

“My folks home-schooled me, too. But that was so’s I could help out ‘round the house more.” Sally put her elbows on the man’s trestle table and leaned forward.

“Sounds like ya had a much dif’rent life than me.” 

“Well, given yer dress, I’d say that yer city folk.”

“Yessir. Born and raised in Nashville.”

“I ain’t got any city in me. Minin’ and farmin’ fam’ly.” Sally’s eyes widened.

“Wow.” The man laughed.

“That ain’t the usual reaction city folk got to farm folk. Most folks tend to look down on farmers an’ miners.” He smiled at her. “The name’s Dulcimearl, but ya can call me Mearl.”

“Sally.”

 

The highlight of Sally’s week rapidly became when she would see Mearl at the farmer’s market. Her classmates were derogatory towards her, but Mearl never treated her poorly.

“It’s just how I was raised,” he said casually. “In my fam’ly, everyone gets taught manners. Like common courtesy. ‘Course, with how many of us there are, if there ain’t manners, nothin’ gets done.”

“How many siblings do ya have?”

“Seven. You?”

“Three.” Sally smiled at him. “An’ I thought _I_ came from a big fam’ly. That’s nothin’ compared to yours.” 

“…Would ya like to meet ‘em?” Mearl asked shyly. Sally beamed.

“I would love to.”

 

Unfortunately, it would be some time before Sally could meet Mearl’s family.

Fortunately, by the time she first visited the McGucket farmhouse, Mearl was able to introduce her as his girlfriend.

“So, yer studyin’ law at that school in Little Rock?” Mrs. McGucket asked her.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to be in a place small like Little Rock, especially since it’s far away from my folks.”

“Ya don’t have a good relationship with yer folks?” Mearl’s older brother, Bassett, asked. Sally shrugged.

“It’s all right, I s’pose. I like ‘em well enough. They just put a lot of pressure on me.”

“That’s too bad,” Mrs. McGucket said kindly. 

“Can I point out that Little Rock ain’t small?” one of Mearl’s sisters said. Sally couldn’t remember her name.

“Compared to Nashville, it is,” Sally replied. 

Later that day, Mearl pulled Sally to the side.

“So, what do ya think of my fam’ly? Ya can be honest.”

“I love ‘em!” Sally said enthusiastically. “Goldarn, I wish my fam’ly were half as welcomin’. Any time some boy showed interest in me, my folks would sit me down and tell me not to settle.” A strange expression crossed Mearl’s face.

“Do ya think yer folks would say the same thing ‘bout me?” he asked timidly. Sally realized what she had said.

“Oh! No, no way. Those boys, I didn’t care ‘bout ‘em. But I love ya, Mearl.” Sally took a hold of Mearl’s hands. “My folks would understand.”

They didn’t.

“How many times do we have to tell ya not to settle?” her father demanded. “Ya really thought ya would fall fer some farmer? Ya could land a doctor, easy as pie!”

“I don’t care!” Sally shouted. “Anyways, I ain’t settlin’. I’m bein’ with the man I love.”

“You’ll just be a farmer’s wife, poppin’ out kid after kid! You’ll be cooped up in a farmhouse all day!” her mother said sharply. “Do ya really want that, Sally?” Sally nodded, determined.

“I do.” 

She repeated those words to the love of her life at a ceremony. None of her family attended, but the McGuckets (she was one now, she reminded herself) more than made up for it. 

Her mother was right about one thing. Sally had more kids than she ever dreamed she would.

 

Sally was nineteen when she got pregnant with her first child. Needless to say, she wasn’t planning on this, but she decided to…ignore it, for the time being. She went to class, took notes, and struggled with the worry that she would have to abandon her education once she became a mother. Mearl wasn’t much help, being equal parts supportive and nervous. After all, he was going to be a young parent, too. 

But May eventually rolled around, and the day after she finished her last final of the semester, Sally went into labor. On May 8, 1942, she and Mearl welcomed their first child into the world. 

“We should name her Lynn,” Sally said softly, stroking her daughter’s bright red curls. 

“How ‘bout Violynn?” Mearl suggested.

“What?”

“My fam’ly has a namin’ convention. But if ya want, we don’t have to do that. Lynn is a perfectly lovely name on its own.”

“No, I like it. Violynn.” Violynn made a small sound and Sally held her tighter. She looked at her husband. “But we ain’t havin’ any more kids ‘til I’m through with schoolin’, okay?” Mearl kissed her on the forehead.

“Okay, darlin’.”

They had two more children while she was pursuing her law degree. Harper, born in 1945, and Sebasstian, born in 1948. The day she took the bar exam, Sally McGucket kissed her children on the way out the door. Violynn and Harper wished her good luck, but Basstian, being only a grand total of four months old, merely waved chubby arms at her as she left. 

She passed the bar exam.

But she didn’t do anything with her degree.

Sally was content to sit at home with her children, and be there for the moments that she’d had to miss while she was at school. Her friends asked her why she seemed happy with being just a farmer’s wife, a housewife.

“My law degree was fer me, and me alone. I never wanted to use it; I just wanted to learn everythin’ that came along with it,” she replied. “And now, I want to learn everythin’ that comes along with this part of life. Bein’ a mom, and a wife. And maybe legal counsel if’n one of Mearl’s cousins gets caught riding a cow down the highway while drunk. Again.”

After Basstian was two years old, they tried to have more children, with no success. Finally, after two years of attempts, and a rough pregnancy, they had their second daughter, Viola, in 1952. Eventually, they would learn that Viola wasn’t their daughter. But that was some time away. 

Lute followed, a whisker over a year later, in 1953. By this time, the multiple pregnancies were leaving their mark on Sally, who was beginning to regret marrying a man from a very fertile family.

“I love ‘em all,” she said to her sister-in-law, Banjolina (Banjey, for short). “But Lord, there’s so many of ‘em!” Lute, a few months old, grabbed at her hair eagerly. “Ouch!” Banjey took Lute from her.

“Yer tough, even though yer city folk. My parents weren’t completely sure ya could handle two Gucklings, let alone five. McGuckets are notoriously exuberant as children, and usually, only folks from big fam’lies can raise ‘em without their hair turnin’ grey in their thirties.” Sally frowned.

“Why are ya tellin’ me that?”

“To make a point. Yer tough, Sally. Tougher than ya give yourself credit fer. You’ll be a great ma to all yer kids, no matter how many there are. And if ya ever need help, I’m only a phone call away.”

As Lute got older, Sally began to feel a sadness. Sure, she’d had some issues during the last pregnancies, but she was rapidly running out of time to have another child. Violynn was eleven years old, and Sally didn’t want a significant age gap between her children. So she made the split decision to have just one more. 

Mearl supported her.

“I always wanted lots of kids,” he said gently, feeling his last child kicking in his wife’s stomach. “An’ ya know how I am ‘bout numbers. Havin’ an even number of kids, why, that’s perfect.” 

“Yer a goon, Dulcimearl.”

“I’m yer goon, Sally.”

They welcomed their last child, a daughter, on April 1, 1955. Complications resulted in an emergency C-section. The doctor told Sally that she shouldn’t have any more children.

“I mean, you can. I just would not recommend it.” Sally laughed.

“It ain’t a problem, doc. I’m fine with just the six kids.” They named her after Mearl’s older sister, who had always been there for Sally and Mearl when they struggled with their many children. 

 

By 1968, Sally was confident that she could handle anything her large family did. Sure, the youngest two were over-eager, hyperactive, and could be clumsy, but Viola was responsible enough to make up for it. Home life almost ran on its own, to the point where Sally had taken on a job teaching law at the community college in the nearby town of Hog Swill. After all, she had been itching to use her law degree for quite some time. 

It was while she was doing the dishes one night that her sweet, quiet daughter walked into the kitchen.

“Sweetheart, could ya help me out a bit?” Sally asked without looking up. “These need to be dried.”

“Actually, Ma…” Sally picked up on the nervous tone in her child’s voice. She looked up.

“Oh, Lord! What happened to yer hair?” she gasped, drying off her hands. Sally gently guided Viola over to the table and sat down with her. “Did one of yer younger siblings do this to ya? Was it Lute or Banjey? Was it both of ‘em?” 

“Ma, relax,” Viola said softly. “No one did this to me. I- I did it to myself.” Sally ran her hands through her daughter’s roughly chopped hair. 

“Why?”

“I can’t have long hair no more, Ma, I can’t! It don’t sit right with me!”

“Oh, shush, darlin’, it’ll be fine. We’ll get this trimmed, and turned into a bob all nice-like.”

“No! I can’t live like this no more. I-I hate it when I look in the mirror.” Sally’s heart sunk. She’d done her best to ensure all her children had high self-esteem, but things were bound to slip through, particularly with Mearl’s mental background. 

“Sweetie, yer a very pretty girl,” she said reassuringly, rubbing her daughter’s back. Viola took a deep breath.

“That’s the thing, Ma. I ain’t a girl.” Sally blinked.

“What?”

“I’m- I’m a boy.” 

“Sweetie, what are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I know it’s confusin’, Ma, but it’s who I am,” Viola said in a rush. Mearl walked into the kitchen.

“There’s my girls!” he said jovially, giving them each a kiss. 

“Pa, I ain’t a girl,” Viola said. Mearl froze. He very slowly took a seat at the table with Sally and Viola.

“What do ya mean?”

“I’m a boy.” 

“A boy? I think we would know if you were a boy, hon. We were there when you were born. Doctor said ya were a girl and everythin’.” 

“The doctor was wrong, Pa. I ain’t a girl. I’m a- a trans-gender.” Mearl took a deep, steadying breath.

“Is that anythin’ like bein’ a homosexual?”

“N-no, Pa. It’s a dif’rent thing. But I s’pose it is the same, in that it means I’m dif’rent from most folks.” 

“Sweetheart, yer pa and I ‘re goin’ to need some time to handle this,” Sally said gently. “But know somethin’. No matter who or what ya are, we love ya. If ya want to be a boy-”

“I don’t _want_ to be a boy!” Viola interrupted. Sally blinked, surprised by the outburst from her normally well-behaved child. “I _am_ a boy.” 

“Don’t raise yer voice at yer ma,” Mearl scolded.

“Mearl, it’s fine,” Sally said quickly. “If yer a boy, then we still love ya and support ya. Right, Mearl?” Mearl nodded. “See?”

“And if yer lookin’ fer a boy name, ya can use the one we planned fer ya before ya were born,” Mearl said. “The one we’d give ya if ya turned out to be a boy.” He cracked a small smile. “I guess ya turned out to be a boy after all.”

“What name?”

“Fiddleford. It’s a fam’ly name.” Viola nodded.

“I like it. Can y’all call me Fiddleford, then?”

“‘Course, sweetie,” Sally said. “But darlin’, could ya leave us be fer a bit? Yer pa and I will need to talk ‘bout this.”

“O-okay.”

“In the meantime, don’t tell Lute and Banjey. They’re too young.” 

“Okay, Ma.” Sally gave her child one last kiss before she- no, _he_ got up. Once he’d left the kitchen, she looked at Mearl helplessly.

“What are we goin’ to do?” 

“Support our child,” Mearl said simply. Sally nodded.

“If’n she- _he_ sticks with this, we’ll need to get her- _him_ some new identification.”

“Good thing yer a lawyer, then, ain’t it?” Sally smiled at her husband.

“I knew that law degree would come in handy for things other than teachin’ classes.” Her smile faded. “But, Mearl, this is goin’ to turn everythin’ upside down. We’ll need to change things.”

“So what? We can do that. We’ve done it before.” Mearl put an arm around Sally’s shoulders. “When we became parents, we promised to love our children. We promised to take care of ‘em, support ‘em. Just ‘cause _this_ changed, don’t mean _that_ has to change.” Sally blinked rapidly as her eyes filled with tears. She laced her fingers with Mearl’s.

“Yer right, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He kissed her. “I love ya, Sally.” She kissed him back.

“I love ya, Mearl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm effectively ending this collection of ficlets here. If I write other things in this AU that I like enough to post here, I'll add them. But I won't be updating this regularly.


End file.
